The Merchant of Dreams (42 page)

On the other hand if it really were Hennaq, this was an opportunity unlooked-for. Once the skraylings landed, they would no doubt be escorted to the
fondaco
, and if he wanted to negotiate for his own and Sandy’s freedom, he’d have to find another way in. Cinquedea might still be able to help, but if he couldn’t or wouldn’t… Pulling his hood closer about his face Mal ran to the waterfront and hailed the nearest gondolier.

“Take me to that ship!”

The gondolier looked curiously at him but waved him aboard. The gondola had no cabin, only seats either side of its centre section. Mal sat down, clinging to the edge of the bench.

Upon reaching the ship, Mal did not climb aboard. Instead, he hailed one of the crewmen and asked to speak to the captain. A few minutes later a middle-aged skrayling with beads in his silvered hair appeared at the rail.

“Captain Hennaq?” Mal called up.

“Erishen?” Hennaq’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he said something in Vinlandic.

“No, not Sandy. I am his brother, Maliverny.”

“And what is your purpose here, half-a-man?” Hennaq said, switching to Tradetalk.

Mal bridled at the insult, but swallowed his pride. “To offer you a far greater prize than myself and my brother.”

“A prize? What prize?”

“I do not think you want it shouted across the water.”

“Then come aboard.” Hennaq gestured towards his cabin. “We can talk over a glass of
aniig
, like civilised men.”

“You’ll forgive me if I do not trust you,” Mal said with a laugh. “Come down to the boat, and we can talk.”

Hennaq hesitated. “Very well,” he said at last. “But I warn you, I will tell my men to shoot if you try to row away.”

Mal inclined his head in acquiescence and instructed the awestruck gondolier to row close to the ship. Skrayling bows did not have the range of European crossbows, but he knew he had no chance of getting away before they turned him into a porcupine.

Hennaq climbed gingerly down the rope ladder and stepped into the gondola. “Well?”

“I am not the only guiser in Venice. There is another, far older, whose return to our homeland would bring you great glory. Songs and stories would be written about you and spread throughout the clans.”

Hennaq licked his lips. “Go on.”

Mal told him. Hennaq’s eyes widened, and his hand strayed upwards to touch his clan-beads.

“One of the Lost Ones?”

“Perhaps the last of the Lost Ones. The man who returned her to her people would win great fame. Women will vie amongst themselves to bear your daughters, and give you sons too.”

“Why me? Why not claim this glory for yourself, if you know who she is and believe you can capture her?”

“Because we have wronged you, my brother and I. This is our recompense. I hope it is equal to our debt.”

Hennaq nodded, his eyes unfocusing as if looking deep into memory.

“Nothing I do can bring back Tanijeel,” Mal went on. “But I can make a sacrifice of my own, to balance his. I humbly ask that you accept.”

For a long moment the captain did not reply, and Mal began to fear the skrayling would reject the offer. And what then?

“It is good trade,” Hennaq said at last.

Mal drew in a slow breath and let it out again, hoping the skrayling did not guess how anxious he had been to secure this agreement. He held out his hand, palm up, and Hennaq placed his own hand over it. After a moment they both withdrew their hands and bowed as best they could, the boat rocking gently at the movement.

“Bring the human woman to me at the great house rented to our elders,” Hennaq said. “All should see her and know what she has done, before I take her back to Vinland.”

“To the
fondaco
? I’m not sure that will be possible–”

“You try to go back on our bargain?” Hennaq bared his teeth.

“No, it is the Venetian law. No visitors are allowed into the great house, as you call it.” At least, not without a good disguise. Smuggling Olivia in there against her will was not something he wished to try in a hurry.

“Hmm. Then bring her to me here, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I must either go ashore soon or leave. That is also the Venetian law. Tomorrow.”

“Very well.” Mal looked around. “It were best done after nightfall, when fewer eyes are around to see.”

“Agreed.”

They bowed again, and Hennaq disappeared up the rope ladder. Mal told the gondolier to return to shore. Tomorrow night. That did not give him a lot of time to work out a plan. On the other hand, the sooner this were over, the better. He did not trust himself to keep a secret from Olivia for long.

Coby sat on the end of the bed, listening in appalled horror to Sandy and Ned’s story.

“You want to rob a dead man?” she said at last.

“It’s not like he needs the necklace,” Ned replied.

“Neither do you. Sandy has his own spirit-guard.”

Sandy hefted the pouch, which rattled faintly. “This is naught but a makeshift substitute. What I seek are my clan-beads, taken from me when my last body was murdered.”

“You could make more,” Coby said. “That’s what Ruviq said he would do, when he lost his.”

“I am no child.” Sandy’s face was like thunder. “My clan-beads are centuries old, some of them, given to me by fathers long turned to dust. Wearing them marks me as
tjirzadhen
, one of the Many Times Born. They cannot be made anew.”

“But how are you going to get them back, now Bragadin is dead?”

“I am sure I can persuade his widow–”

“Oh no. We’ve had enough of your magic, thank you. Besides, it’s not safe with this Olivia woman around.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“We’ll find a way.” She looked at the two other men. “Won’t we?”

Ned and Gabriel made noises of agreement.

“Very well,” Sandy said. “I shall leave it to you to arrange it. I am going down to the garden to read, it is too hot in here.”

When he had gone, Ned groaned.

“What did you say that for? I’ve had enough of sneaking around this city, I’m not going to risk being arrested again.”

“We could just ask his widow, couldn’t we?” Gabriel said. “She might be willing to sell it.”

Ned broke into a grin. “Hendricks can ask her, one woman to another.”

“Me?” Why did all her adventures of late turn on her adopting female guise?

“If you prefer, I could dress up,” Gabriel said. “A good shave and a layer of ceruse, and I am sure I could pass.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Coby said.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Ned said. “Venetian women never go anywhere alone. Gabriel could pretend to be a courtesan, and you his – I mean her – maidservant.”

“Why must I be the maidservant? I am an actual woman, after all.”

Ned gave her an old-fashioned look. “You’re also a blushing virgin, whereas Gabe here…”

Gabriel threw a wadded up sheet of paper at him. “Are you calling me a strumpet? You can throw stones, Ned Faulkner–”

“Enough!” Coby glared at both of them.

“Anyway it’ll never work,” Gabriel said at last. “Neither of us speaks more than a few words of Italian, for a start.”

“So you’re an English courtesan, here to learn from your Venetian sisters.”

“I still think it’s a stupid idea,” Coby muttered. “Anyway, why would an English courtesan be visiting Bragadin’s widow?”

“Simple,” Ned said. “Everyone knows that Olivia was Bragadin’s mistress. But she’s in mourning now too. So, she’s sent one of her courtesan friends to request the return of the necklace Bragadin was having valued for her.”

“It’ll never work.”

“Of course it will work. Won’t it, Gabe?”

“We will do our best,” the actor replied. “It can do no harm, at any rate.”

“Very well, since I cannot dissuade you,” Coby said. “Heaven forbid that Ned would shave off his beard and try to pass as your maidservant.”

The lovers exchanged knowing glances, and Coby rolled her eyes. If only Mal would return and take charge of his wayward friends. She got more respect from the skraylings.

“Only one problem,” Ned said. “Where are you going to get clothes from? You both need to look the part.”

“That’s the easy bit,” Coby said. “Raleigh told me we are all invited to the Doge’s investiture tomorrow, and to make a good show for England we must wear the finest clothes the Mercerie can provide. But he never said we had to dress as men.”

When Mal stepped ashore, he half expected to be arrested. After all, he’d spoken to a skrayling captain in public, in full sight of the Doge’s Palace. Perhaps Surian’s men were only watching the embassy, or perhaps the skraylings were not subject to the full force of Venetian law unless they came ashore. Still, best not to push his luck. He wanted this business with Hennaq concluded quickly and efficiently, with as little danger to his friends as possible, and to be sure of that he needed help.

The Mermaid was empty this early in the morning. A pale-faced girl was scrubbing the tables; she looked up as Mal entered and forced a smile that turned into a yawn.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I think he’s looking for me.” Cinquedea stood in the doorway leading to the upper storey.

At a glance from Cinquedea, the girl threw her scrubbing brush in her bucket and fled the common room.

“So…” Cinquedea drew up a bench and perched on one end, avoiding the wet tabletop. “You are a bold one,
signore
, coming here after what happened in Rio Tera degli Assassini.”

“That was none of my doing,” Mal replied, leaning on a neighbouring table. “The ambassador’s servant overheard your messenger boy, and merely did his civic duty.”

“Still, careless of you to let him overhear.”

“I had no idea who the message came from. Perhaps it is your boys who need training in discretion.”

Cinquedea raised an eyebrow. “As I said, a bold one. So, you still want passage into… a certain building?”

“No, I have a more urgent need.” Mal glanced towards the tavern door and lowered his voice. “I need you to help me abduct the honest courtesan, Olivia dalle Boccole.”

Cinquedea stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“You think I am Cupid, to help you in your amorous adventures?” He got to his feet.

“Please.” Mal stood, ready to block the other man’s exit. “This is no lover’s whim. She is a dangerous woman. If you wish to work unhindered in this city, you would do well to be rid of her.”

Cinquedea shook his head. “Our arrangement concerns the
sanuti
, not our citizens.”

“So does this.”

“How so?”

Mal drew a deep breath. Best to keep this simple. “She is not who she seems. She is a New World witch, and the
sanuti
have agreed to take her home with them.”

“Do not lie to me,
signore
. Olivia dalle Boccole was born in this city. My mother’s cousin in Cannaregio knows her mother.”

“Olivia has a mother?”

“We all have mothers,” Cinquedea said with a smile. “And fathers too, though not all know them.”

Mal ignored the slur.

“She didn’t mention a mother,” he muttered to himself. It had never occurred to him that this scheme might leave an old woman bereft.

“It is hardly a fit subject for pillow talk, eh?” Cinquedea paused in the doorway. “Forget this woman who has wronged you. There are plenty more such. Bring me good information, and you may have your pick of my girls.”

“Thank you,” Mal replied with as much grace as he could muster. “Good day to you,
signore
.”

He left the taverna in a far less cheerful humour than he had arrived. Why had he let the others talk him into this? Never mind, he could manage without them. All he had to do was kill Hafiz, bind and gag Olivia and bundle her into a gondola. How hard could that be?

Coby’s stomach churned as their gondolier rapped on the door-knocker of Palazzo Bragadin. This was never going to work. Not because Gabriel did not look the part; on the contrary, once he had donned gown and makeup and Ned had fastened ribbons in his long pale hair, he made a remarkably convincing woman. But surely a respectable widow like Signora Bragadin would never admit them to her home?

Palazzo Bragadin looked like a much grander version of Berowne’s house. The walls were painted a soft terracotta colour that contrasted prettily with windows edged in white stonework, and just above their heads a little balcony jutted out over the water, held up by carved lions and decorated with tiny male busts at intervals along the balustrade. After a few moments the door opened and a servant asked their names.

“Lady Elizabeth Raleigh,” Gabriel said in haughty tones.

Coby hid her gasp of surprise with a feigned cough. Well, it was one way to get them through the front door. The servant ushered them inside, and after a short wait they were shown up to the
piano nobile
.

Signora Bragadin rose to greet them. A thin, handsome woman of forty or so, she was dressed in widow’s black that made her look fashionably pale without the need for ceruse.

“Lady Elisabetta!” She chattered away for some moments in Italian, much to Gabriel’s bemusement.

“Excuse me,” Coby said in French. “My lady does not speak your language.”

Signora Bragadin summoned her own maid, and between the four of them they managed a stilted conversation. A manservant brought coffee for the ladies, rather to Coby’s surprise; she had seen Mal and Captain Youssef drink it together occasionally, but had not realised it had become a Christian habit. The scent was very enticing but the one time she had tried it, she had pulled a face at its bitter flavour and it had taken all her self-control not to spit it out. Gabriel’s reaction was not dissimilar; she spotted him hastily ladling in sugar when their hostess was not looking.

Gabriel tried to keep up the pretence of being Raleigh’s wife, but after a while he ran out of plausible answers to Signora Bragadin’s questions and fell back on their original story, that he was a friend of Olivia dalle Boccole. Their hostess’s expression turned to stone.

“I should have known,” she said, looking Gabriel up and down. “Please leave.”